#27.5: What Happened to My Sweet Girl?

Here begins a new side project called "Beyond The List." Occasionally I watch films that aren't on The List, and occasionally I am inspired to write about said films. Some will be new, some will be old. There are no rules, really. So, without further ado, I present the first film that came from "Beyond the List"...

(Black Swan, Darren Aronofsky, 2010)

Black Swan is like a nightmare. A beautiful, unsettling, breathtaking nightmare. For 108 minutes I found myself completely glued to the screen, and when it ended I wanted nothing more than for it to keep going, even though I knew that it had nowhere else to go. I don't find myself saying this very often, but Black Swan is one of the best films I have ever seen. I was transfixed. I was absolutely captivated by the nightmare that was unraveling before my eyes, fighting to keep up with the twists and turns.

I've heard Darren Aronofsky's name thrown around quite a bit. Requiem for a Dream seems to have become somewhat notorious, and it's on The List, so I'll probably be viewing it in the fairly near future (to be clear, I would probably see it even if it wasn't on The List). Last year, Aronofsky's The Wrestler gained critical accolades and managed to win Mickey Rourke an Oscar (I've yet to see that film, either). In all honesty, until Black Swan I hadn't seen any of Aronofsky's films. His reputation preceded him in the best way possible though, because as soon as I saw his name on the trailer (along with Natalie Portman's stunningly terrifying make-up) I knew that I would absolutely be seeing the film as soon as humanly possible. Which I did. And, oh man, I was not disappointed.

I don't want to spoil anything about Black Swan. I don't even want to put a spoiler warning at the top of this post and let people read at their own risk. Going into Black Swan with no knowledge of the film beyond what I'd seen in the trailer was undeniably the best possible approach. I'd formed my own assumptions, but I had nothing else. My only expectations were ones that I had created myself, and I strongly believe that allowed me to become as engrossed in the film as I did. I was right there with all of the characters, struggling to understand what was going on, but wanting that understanding more than anything. It was absolutely fantastic, and there's no way I'm going to spoil that for anyone.

I will talk about this: visually, Black Swan is nothing short of a work of art. Beyond that statement I actually don't have a lot to say on the subject, but that definitely needs to be said. It's stunning. In fact, my only complaint about the film is that the final performance of the ballet wasn't longer, because I could have watched Natalie Portman dancing in those stunning costumes for another two hours. Her performance as the Black Swan was one of the most incredible things I've ever seen on film, and I wish that it could have just kept on going. In that crucial moment the nightmare just became a beautiful dream that I didn't want to wake up from.

So that's it. Black Swan is incredible. I'm not sure I can think of another film that, for me, has delivered so strongly from start to finish. From my first viewing of the trailer to the time when the credits started rolling, Black Swan may have been the best cinematic experience I've ever had. That seems like a strange thing to say about a film that four paragraphs ago I described as a "beautiful nightmare," but it's the truth. I love this film. Period.

#27: Gentlemen, You Can't Fight in Here! This Is the War Room!

(Dr. Strangelove, Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, 1964, Stanley Kubrick)

So... my last post lied. I said in the Very Brief Update that I would resume with a belated Halloween post, but on November 25th it feels a little too belated, so I'll just move on with the comedy. There will actually be a few comedies coming up probably, partly because the next Flashback Feature is a comedy I'm particularly fond of, and partly because I just feel like some comedy. So... get ready for that. And now, on with Dr. Strangelove.

I actually watched Dr. Strangelove while I was still in the midst of studying for my GRE. For those of you who don't know, the GRE is the Graduate Record Examination, and is essentially the SAT for college graduates. The long and short of it is that I needed a certain score to even be considered for the graduate program I'm applying to, and I got above that certain score, so I'm happy. However, I achieved that score by going through lots and lots of flashcards (so many flashcards...) and taking lots and lots of practice tests (so many practice tests...), and after trying to cram 1,000 obscure adjectives into my brain it was nice to take a break and watch a nice movie. Fortunately, Dr. Strangelove had shown up in my mailbox, ready to provide me with just the respite from studying that I needed (respite=GRE vocabulary word).

Dr. Strangelove had a few things going for it from the start. First of all, it was directed by Stanley Kubrick, who is quickly moving up my list of favorite directors. Kubrick was not generally known for his comedy (see: The Shining), but Dr. Strangelove ends up working really well. That leads me to the second thing it had going for it: satire. Satire is one of my favorite comedic tools because, unlike a lot of other types of comedy, it assumes that the audience is somewhat intelligent. I appreciate when my movies assume that I'm intelligent, especially when I'm taking practice tests that are repeatedly telling me that I'm not. Finally, Dr. Strangelove has Peter Sellers, who is without a doubt a comic genius. He plays three roles in the film (originally he was contracted to play four, but he hurt himself, so one was cut), including Dr. Strangelove himself. The only word for his performance (performances?) is brilliant.

So my deck was pretty much stacked in favor of Dr. Strangelove from the get go. I knew there was pretty much no way I couldn't love a black comedy directed by Stanley Kubrick that satirizes war and stars Peter Sellers. There was just no chance. And I did love it. The movie is hilarious, and it even managed to surprise me a little bit. For one thing, I wasn't expecting George C. Scott to be as funny as he was. Scott is known primarily for his portrayal of General George S. Patton in Patton, a role which is decidedly unfunny. However, unbeknownst to me, George C. Scott actually has excellent timing and physical comedy skills. Also a surprise: Peter Sellers' characters that weren't Dr. Strangelove. Sellers as the American president was absolutely hysterical. In fact, the entire portrayal of the American political system is uproariously funny. The way it's satirized almost makes it feel like the film wasn't made in the 1960's, but rather in today's political environment. Particularly amusing was the way that the American president spoke to the Russian premier over the phone. They spoke not as world leaders, but as if they were in a precarious relationship and were each struggling not to tread on the other's toes. It's funny and witty, and still surprisingly relevant 46 years later.

I just... loved this film. Once again I've been reminded why I chose to do this project. I have no idea how long it would have taken me to see Dr. Strangelove if it hadn't been for this undertaking. Unlike Cranes are Flying, I'm sure I sure I would have seen this one eventually, but it definitely would have taken me longer. I'm really glad The List goaded me into watching it now because it was a really enjoyable, humorous film that provided an excellent break from incessant vocabulary practice. It also made me feel smart during a week in which I generally felt like an idiot for not knowing what words like "pulchritude" and "malediction" meant. And, since today is Thanksgiving, I will say that for that reason I am thankful for Dr. Strangelove. I am thankful for any movie that doesn't make me feel like a flaming ignoramus.

Another Very Brief Update

Dear Loyal Readers,

I know there are only about four of you out there (hi, mom! Hi, Aunt Erin!), but I feel I should update you on the reason for my silence recently. I am currently studying for my GRE. I take it on November 17th, at which point I will return to updating. I will resume with a very belated Halloween-related update. Then who knows what will come next. Probably some comedy.

Respectfully,

Ms. Caroline H. Huff

#26: I Feel the Need... The Need for Speed!

(Top Gun, 1986, Tony Scott)

WARNING: Spoilers ahead! (Though if you don't know how Top Gun ends you're probably living in a cave and thus not reading this blog)

One of the movie theaters in Eugene shows what they call "Flashback Features" on Wednesday nights during part of the year. I've always seen the posters and thought about going, but I've never actually made it. This week they were showing Top Gun, and my mom and I decided that we were going to go see it. Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances, my mom was unable to attend, so I ended up going with my friend Cameron, which ended up being a lot of fun because we could act like 5th graders during the really weird sex scene.

I really enjoyed Top Gun. It was entertaining, and Tom Cruise in the 80's was very easy on the eyes, and the fighter jet scenes were pretty cool. Tom Cruise is also just really awesome in this movie. For example, when he rode by the fighter jets on his motorcycle, Cameron turned to me and said "of course he rides a motorcycle." Yeah. Because he's a fighter pilot. And he's AWESOME. Also, thanks to my general obsession with pop culture, I already knew most of what was going to happen even though I'd never seen Top Gun in its entirety. So I was mentally and emotionally prepared for Goose dying and Iceman being a tool which probably allowed me to enjoy the film more. So, I liked it, and now everyone can stop having a cow over the fact that I'd never seen Top Gun because now I've seen it and I can move on with my life and this post. Which I will continue by talking about all of the weird things in Top Gun that I didn't really like.

1. The sex scene. I'm not super wild about sex scenes in movies in general. Not that I'm a prude or anything, I just tend to find them awkward and really uncomfortable to watch. Especially when there are other people present. The Top Gun sex scene is made particularly uncomfortable by extended periods of Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis looking deeply into each other eyes, and the fact that you can see their tongues entering each others' mouths. Let me say that again for emphasis. Tongues visibly entering each others' mouths. We all know that when people in movies kiss they use tongue, but I really don't need visual confirmation of that. It's just not necessary. Of course, as mentioned above, I saw this with my friend Cameron, and we spent the entirety of the scene trying to stifle furious laughter. So I guess it worked out just fine.

2. The soundtrack. This is kind of a half-gripe. I actually liked the soundtrack just fine for the most part. "Danger Zone" is super cheesy and is basically the song version of the line "I feel the need... the need for speed." It fits perfectly into the fabric of the film. And Tom Cruise and the rest of the pilots singing "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" is cinematic genius. But I borderline hate "Take My Breath Away." Unlike "Danger Zone," it's dramatic and cheesy in a bad way. It almost hurts. And the worst part is that it seems like Top Gun didn't have the budget for an entire soundtrack. Instead they just used "Danger Zone" and "Take My Breath Away" again and again. Which is all well and good if you're using this film as the basis for a drinking game, but kind of annoying when you're soberly watching it in a movie theater and you hate "Take My Breath Away."

3. The weird man-to-man interactions. Jokes get made about the homoeroticism of Top Gun all the time, and it's fairly easy to see why. The volleyball scene alone is pretty intense. And that's fine. They're dudes, they're together all the time, and they're clearly very comfortable with each other. Which is awesome. But do they really need to be having serious conversations when they're all sweaty and half naked in the locker room? And does Iceman really need to be all up in Maverick's face like that? Not really. It just kind of... makes it weird. That's all. Especially considering all the time these guys spend talking about having sex with girls. I would be totally cool with it if there was an openly gay character or two in the film, but there aren't any. There's just an abundance gay innuendo that doesn't really need to be there. However, I do want to say that the relationship between Maverick and Goose is incredible. Tom Cruise and Anthony Edwards did an incredible job of blending brotherly love with true affection. Goose understands Maverick in a way that no one else does, and when Goose dies it obviously affects Maverick in a way that nothing ever has before. Their relationship is strong and believable, and I think some of the other relationships in the film (like the one between Iceman and Slider) would have been better if they'd been developed a little bit more. Seriously, though. I'm not against gay characters in film (you should hear me talk about how much I love The Birdcage), it just bugs me that I can't tell if Top Gun is trying to be homoerotic, or if it just kind of happened because there are a lot of partially clothed men saying vaguely sexual things to each other.

So that's it. Now I've seen Top Gun. On a lot of levels I really enjoyed it. Mostly because Tom Cruise was young and attractive and slightly imperfect (those crooked teeth honestly just make him more adorable), and because I enjoyed seeing people like Meg Ryan and Tim Robbins in early roles. Also, fighter jets are cool. The things I listed above kind of bug me, but not enough to make me dislike the movie. They ultimately just gave me something to talk about in this blog. Of course, the other thing that bugs me is that Goose dies. But who knows? Maybe next time Goose won't die.

I just want to add down here that it was mentioned at this screening that if attendance doesn't go up there will likely not be Flashback Features next year. Next Wednesday they are showing Monty Python and the Holy Grail. They show an "old" film every Wednesday at the VRC Regal Cinemas. Tickets are only five dollars. Go see one.

#25: You Can Dream When The War Is Over.

(The Cranes are Flying, 1957, Mikhail Kalatozov)

WARNING: The spoilers are also flying.

Watching The Cranes are Flying finally made me fully understand why I'm still working on this project. A lot of the time I get kind of worn out with this little experiment. I think to myself, "I don't want to watch all of this random stuff, I just want to watch Mean Girls and Fargo and talk about movies that I already know that I love." I have to force myself to bump foreign films and documentaries up to the top of my Netflix queue, and then I shudder a little bit when they show up in the mail. I know that I started this project myself, and nothing is forcing me to complete it, but I really feel like I've committed myself to it and now I have to stick it out, even through the things that I don't like or don't want to see. Then, miraculously, on my train ride to Seattle I watched The Cranes are Flying and I remembered why I wanted to start this in the first place.

I mentioned in my post for M that it's one of my favorite films, but I failed to mention that the first time I saw it was for a film history class. If it hadn't been for that class it might have taken me years to sit down and watch M, or I may never have seen it at all. The List did a similar thing for me with The Cranes are Flying. If it hadn't been on The List I probably would have never even heard of it, let alone seen it. Which would have been a great tragedy, because it's remarkable. In 97 minutes it manages to allow the audience to fully connect with the main character, Veronika, and almost feel her pain right along with her. On top of that, it's uniquely and beautifully filmed in a way that I would have never expected a 1950's Russian film to be (not that I know much about Russian film, but The Cranes are Flying certainly shattered all of my expectations).

The Cranes are Flying is about two people in love. Veronika (played by Tatyana Samojlova, who reminds me of a Russian Audrey Hepburn or Natalie Wood) is in love with Boris (played by Aleksey Batalov), but Boris goes off to fight in the war and Veronika is left alone. What's even more heartbreaking is that she doesn't get to say goodbye. When she goes to his house to see him off he is already gone, and she gets lost in the crowd when she goes to find him with the other soldiers. Her only token of him is a squirrel doll that he got her for her birthday, chosen because his nickname for her is Squirrel. Their love is sweet and pure, and watching her face as she realizes that she's not going to see him for one last time before he goes to the front is heartbreaking.

I think what I really liked about The Cranes are Flying is the fact that even though it's definitely about war, it's really just about people. I found myself actively feeling bad for Veronika, honestly wishing that Boris was still alive and was coming back to her. I don't often feel that for characters in movies. I mean, I care about the characters, but I fully wanted to believe that Boris wasn't dead and that the couple would get to live the life that they were planning together. And when she finally realized that he was really, truly not coming back I had to stop myself from crying on the train between Portland and Seattle. It was like how I sometimes feel when I watch Moulin Rouge (which, tragically, is not on The List). I find myself actively hoping that Satine won't die and she and Christian will continue to be happy and in love. Sometimes I even stop the DVD before she dies and pretend that it ends that way. But, alas, it is not. Nor is it that way in The Cranes are Flying. Which is tragic, but probably much better for the integrity of the film.

I am genuinely glad that I have seen The Cranes are Flying. It's a movie that I will recommend to people, and it's something that I would show to a film class if I was ever lucky enough to be teaching a film class. And I have nothing but The List and this project to thank for it. For the first time in a few months I am supremely happy that I am taking this on because it has exposed me to something that I can truly and honestly say that I love. It has renewed my faith in foreign films and The List, and I just could not be happier about it. So thank you, The Cranes are Flying. Now I won't dread it when a foreign film shows up in my mailbox.

#24: Well, Nobody's Perfect!

(Some Like It Hot, 1959, Billy Wilder)

Some Like It Hot is easily one of the most perfect comedies ever made. It's has mobsters, cross-dressers, musicians, and dirty old men. It stars Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis, Joe E. Brown, and Marilyn Monroe. And it was directed by Billy Wilder. I mean, it has a lot going for it. So, even though I had vowed to watch more of the "weird movies" on The List, I decided to revisit Some Like It Hot in honor of Tony Curtis's recent passing. It felt like the right thing to do, and after a week of being sick I decided that I deserved something that was going to make me laugh.

Here's a basic rundown of the plot of Some Like It Hot: two musicians witness the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, and in order to escape being murdered by Spats Columbo they disguise themselves as women and join an all-girls band whose star is Sugar Kane (played by Marilyn Monroe). Tony Curtis's Joe becomes Josephine and Jack Lemmon's Jerry becomes Daphne. Of course, this being a comedy, much of the "dress up as women and escape the mobsters" plan goes awry. Joe ends up falling in love with Sugar, and he carries out that love by pretending to be the millionaire owner of Shell Oil. Jerry, on the other hand, ends up as the object of someone else's affection, which would be just fine if it weren't for the fact that the someone else is a man, and that man falls in love with Jerry's female alter-ego Daphne. Joe E. Brown's Osgood falls hard for Daphne, and Jerry is willing to play along with it in order to reap the benefits of being loved by a millionaire. Then, if that's not complicated enough, Spats and his gang all show up at their hotel and Joe and Jerry must escape, all with the added trouble of dealing with their respective paramours.

I usually try to avoid plot synopses in these posts unless I'm writing about a movie that I expect few people to have seen or if the plot is especially complicated. Some Like It Hot has neither of those problems. I expect most people to have seen it, and the plot is definitely not that complicated. In this instance I pretty much just used the plot synopsis to take up space. That may seem shameless, but the truth is this: I don't have a whole lot to say about Some Like It Hot other than that it's a great film and everyone should see it. I could ramble on about that for a few hundred words, but that's boring and unexciting, so I just gave kind of a rundown of the plot, even though that's kind of boring and unexciting also. And now I'm rambling on about the reason for the plot synopsis because I'm really reaching for things to write about here, people.

I do want to close with this, though. I bumped Some Like It Hot to the top of my Netflix queue the day that Tony Curtis died because I thought it would be an appropriate way for me to honor his passing. I'm not a wild Tony Curtis fan, but I know that he was a very popular actor, and I thought it was a good idea to somehow recognize the end of the life of someone who contributed quite a bit to the American film industry. However, while watching Some Like It Hot, I was struck by something. Tony Curtis was, up until a month ago, the last surviving star of Some Like It Hot. He may have even been the last surviving cast member, but I have absolutely no way of proving that, so I'm going to stick with "last surviving star." Which is incredible. This film was made in 1959, just barely over half a century ago, and none of the stars of the film (or the director, for that matter) are alive anymore.

While Some Like It Hot is definitely a funny movie, I had a seriously sobering moment when I came to that realization. It was an interesting glimpse of human mortality and the impermanence of life, and even though I was laughing like crazy at Tony Curtis ripping of one of Jack Lemmon's "chests," I was kind of happy for that moment of reflection. For me, in a way, the fact that none of the stars of the film are still alive somehow elevates it. It made it distant and unreachable, and for some reason it was that much better for it. Now more than ever it feel like I was watching not just a film, but a piece of history, and it makes me feel good to know that this particular piece of history will live on and make people laugh for many, many years to come.

#23: You Betcha!

(Fargo, 1996, Joel Coen)

Warning: There are spoilers ahead, doncha know? Yah, you betcha!

Going into this post I know that there is absolutely no way that I'll be able to write anything that will adequately describe how much I love this movie, or the Coen brothers in general. I adore them. That's all. I'll admit that I haven't seen all of their movies, and there's at least one that I won't see because I don't want to tarnish my opinion of them, but I am entirely convinced of their brilliance, which Fargo is an excellent example of. It's genius, and that's all there is to it.

The Coens are clever guys. Fargo begins with text that reads "THIS IS A TRUE STORY. The events depicted in this film took place in Minnesota in 1987. At the request of the survivors, the names have been changed. Out of respect for the dead, the rest has been told exactly as it occurred." Well, that's a lie. Kind of. In reality, the Coen brothers drew inspiration from a few different cases and sort of combined them and relocated them in order to get Fargo. Two of the cases that form the basis for the story (the kidnapping of Virginia Piper and the murder of Carol Thompson) actually took place in Minnesota. Essentially, those two incidents were combined to become Jerry Lundegard's plot to have his wife kidnapped and then have his father-in-law pay the ransom, which he exaggerated so that he could pocket most of the money to pay off his debts. The third crime that inspired the Coen brothers actually took place in Connecticut, was far more gruesome, and ended being one of the most memorable parts of the film. That event was the murder of Helle Crafts, whose husband killed her and attempted to dispose of her remains with the help of a woodchipper.

So... why the "based on a true story" introduction? The Coens have said that they added the disclaimer to encourage viewers to suspend disbelief, which actually makes some sense. As Joel Coen himself puts it, "if an audience believes that something's based on a real event, it gives you permission to do things they might otherwise not accept." And, in a way, Fargo is presenting the truth, it's just the truth through the Coen brothers' filter. It's a few truths mixed with some fiction and then all mashed together to make one really good movie about a pregnant police chief and some really inept criminals. Someone gets put through a wood chipper, but it's not Lundegard's wife. Lundegard does hire two guys to get rid of his wife, though he hires them to kidnap her rather than murder her (I guess she ends up dead anyway though, so that's kind of a moot point). But the point is that the truth is mixed in there. Sure, the disclaimer asserts that the entirety of the film is truthful, and that's a lie, but the film isn't entirely untruthful either, which is kind of what makes it fun. It's fun to pick the little tidbits of truth out of the fiction.

I feel like this post is really short considering how much I like this movie, so I'm going to spend a little bit of time on the cast, because it really is a remarkable cast. William H. Macy plays Jerry Lundegard so well that "perfectly" doesn't seem to be a strong enough word. He stutters, sweats, and all together fails to hide his guilt, all while his incredibly expressive face shows every note of panic and fear that crosses it. Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare play Carl Showalter and Gaear Grimsrud, the two criminals hired to kidnap Lundegard's wife. Showalter just can't stop talking, with Buscemi making him simultaneously insufferable and somewhat sympathetic. Stormare plays silent, chain-smoking Grimsrud with calm and patience, until his patience with Showalter finally cracks and he murders him and shoves his body into a woodchipper. Finally there's Frances McDormand, whose portrayal of Marge Gunderson won her an Academy Award. Marge Gunderson is arguably the only character in the film who has any idea what she's doing, and while she doesn't succeed in stopping any of the crimes from being committed, she does succeed in catching the criminals. Her bubbly "Minnesota nice" accent makes her seem air-headed and silly, but she's tougher than she looks and she knows what she's doing. As the only one of the main characters who's unequivocally good, Marge Gunderson gets exactly what she deserves; to go home to her husband knowing that she's a good person who's done a good job. And Frances McDormand got exactly what she deserved; a nice, shiny Oscar.

So that's it. I love Fargo, and I love the Coen brothers. I'm excited that some of their films that I haven't seen are on The List because it will give me a chance to evaluate some of my thoughts about their entire collection of work. For now I just hold Fargo close to my heart as one of those films that is just good because it's good. It's well-written, well-acted, and well-directed, and there's not much more you can ask for.

#22: Brad, Your Sister's Turning Into a Fox!

(Fast Times at Ridgemont High, 1982, Amy Heckerling)

Fast Times at Ridgemont High has gained most of its fame and notoriety from one particular scene in which Phoebe Cates, clad only in a skimpy red bikini, emerges from a swimming pool and proceeds to unclasp the front of that red bikini and reveal her breasts. In 1982 that scene fueled the fantasies of thousands, perhaps millions, of high school boys, and Fast Times at Ridgemont High went down in history because of it. Well, that, and the fact that it was one the first film roles for future Oscar-winner Sean Penn, who plays perpetually stoned surfer dude Jeff Spicoli. But it's mostly famous for that bosom-baring scene, which I suppose is completely understandable.

The Guardian justifies Fast Times at Ridgemont High's placement on The List by saying that "everybody here became a star, down to minor player Forest Whitaker," which I guess is also completely understandable. Sean Penn and Forest Whitaker have both gone on to win the Oscar for Best Actor, Phoebe Cates went on to star in another popular 80's movie in which she didn't show her boobs, Judge Reinhold had various parts in various comedies and family films, and Jennifer Jason Leigh continued to be hot in a bunch of movies and TV shows. Also, Nicholas Cage has a very small role, and we all know the career he's had since 1982. So yes, Fast Times at Ridgemont High is certainly studded with future stars and Phoebe Cates's breasts, but I'm just not sure that's justification enough.

I choose to believe that the most remarkable thing about the film is its source material. At the age of 22 Cameron Crowe was writing for Rolling Stone and decided to go back to high school and document his experiences there. The book that he wrote ended up becoming Fast Times at Ridgemont High. However, the character of "Cameron Crowe, undercover writer" is noticeably absent from the film. That's because while he was writing the book he decided to leave himself out of it for fear that it would negatively impact his ability to accurately portray what high school was like for the people he was observing. Which is pretty cool, I guess. I just ended up not finding the film all that compelling or exciting. It was a portrait of high school experiences, sure. But the high school life that was shown in the film was radically different from mine, so I found it hard to connect or even care.

However, I think what irks me the most about Fast Times at Ridgemont High's appearance on The List is The List's lack of Almost Famous, a film that is based on Cameron Crowe's early experiences as a writer for Rolling Stone and is also written and directed by Crowe himself. While the film is fictionalized and not a literal retelling of his life, it is a version of his life told through his own filter. It also happens to perfectly encapsulate a life that I occasionally wish that I had; the sometimes unglamorous but never unexciting life of a music journalist. Like Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Almost Famous is an essentially true story translated to film. Unlike Fast Times, Almost Famous has a structured plot and characters that I actually found myself caring about and sympathizing with. As such, I feel it is more deserving of a place on The List. But, alas, I do not get a say in that.

The rundown is this: I don't think that a film which is primarily famous for the presence of boobs is a legitimate addition to a list of films to see before you die. Sure, if you're attracted to girls that kind of thing is great fun, but I'd wager that it's safe to say that approximately half of the movie-watching population isn't attracted to girls, so this movie doesn't need to be on the list. Almost Famous should be. And for those who are uncertain about my logic, let me say this: there are boobs in Almost Famous, too. There are just interesting characters and an engaging plot as well.

#21: Alice Thought to Herself...

(Alice, 1988, Jan Svankamjer)

I'll admit, I've been putting off the weird stuff. The List is filled with bizarre films that I have never heard of, and for the last few months I've been avoiding them. I haven't necessarily meant to, I keep reminding myself that I have to watch ALL the films on The List and not just the ones that please me, but I've still attempted to dodge the ones that make me cringe a little when I read their descriptions. Like Eyes Without a Face. Or Audition. I wasn't ready yet, okay? Okay. But after I wrote #20 I realized that the time had come to watch something weird. I suppose one could argue that Blue Velvet was pretty weird, but it's in English and doesn't have stop motion animal skulls, so I'm going to argue otherwise. Alice is weird.

Alice was also mercifully short. At 86 minutes it was fairly easy to swallow, even though I did have to stop it after the first 30, take a nap, and come back later. My brain just couldn't take that much stop-motion weirdness all at once. And that's coming from someone who loved The Nightmare Before Christmas the first time she saw it at age 5. But The Nightmare Before Christmas is charming in is absurdity. It has cute songs, and a cute little ghost dog, and a likable main character with good intentions who just happens to be a bit misguided in them. Alice doesn't have any of that. And Alice is based on Alice in Wonderland, so you'd kind of think it would be inherently charming. It's not.

First of all, the little girl who plays Alice looks an awful lot like she could have played one of the scary twins in The Shining. Except blond. Sure, she's got big blue eyes and could easily be cute, but the way it's filmed makes her seem nothing short of terrifying. Second, there is nothing charming about a caterpillar who's really a sock with glass eyes and dentures. Most of the usual Wonderland characters are unusual approximations of themselves. The White Rabbit is actually a mounted white rabbit that pulls free of its mountings and roams around in stop-motion. Complete with unblinking glass eyes. And the Mad Hatter is a very large, wooden marionette that looks like a cross between Don Quixote and a Hasidic Jew. The March Hare is a giant wind-up toy. Some of the little woodland creatures are not creatures, but just skeletons or skulls with glass eyes and weird limbs. And the caterpillar is a sock. It's more than a little unusual. Thirdly, the entire film is narrated by Alice, including the other characters' dialogue. And when the narration is something like "said the Mad Hatter," or "muttered the White Rabbit," the camera shows a close-up of Alice's mouth. Eerie.

I do have a few good things to say about the film. For one, the mad tea party scene is really cool, despite frequent eerie close-ups of Alice's mouth narrating the scene. It plays out well, with interesting cuts and the March Hare frequently needing winding since he is, after all, a wind-up toy. Also, the playing card characters are pretty cool since they are actual playing cards. But overall, Alice was just a weird, surrealist journey that I couldn't really commit to. I wanted to, in a way, because I like the Alice in Wonderland story, but I'd rather just have a colorful Wonderland with cute rabbits and a charming but insane Mad Hatter. And maybe Alan Rickman's voice behind the caterpillar. Maybe that's too much to ask.

#20: You're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

(Jaws, 1975, Steven Spielberg)

I have many favorite stories about the film industry. My all time favorite is about The Shining, and it involves Kubrick being crafty and cunning and all around incredible. However, the time is not yet here for me to tell that story. My second favorite Hollywood story is about Jaws and its incredible, captivating soundtrack. When Steven Spielberg first heard the score that John Williams had written for the film, he thought it was an elaborate joke. He laughed and said, "that's funny, John, really. But what did you really have in mind?" Of course, John wasn't kidding, and the soundtrack to Jaws became one of the best, most famous, most easily recognizable films scores of all time.

I started with this story not only because I love it, but because it sets an interesting tone when thinking about the success and, let's face it, sheer brilliance of Jaws. While this incident with the score certainly wasn't a "mistake" or an "accident," it certainly was kind of a misstep. I don't know how John Williams convinced Spielberg that his score was actually a good idea, but it's sure a good thing that he did because it's easily one of the most defining elements of the film. Even Spielberg himself has now said that the film wouldn't have been half as successful without the now infamous score. But what about the other signature elements of the film? The shark-eye perspective as the giant man-eater takes down his victims? The incredible cast who seemed to be born to play their respective roles? Were they just things that Spielberg thought were jokes at first? Well... not quite.

The filming of Jaws was plagued with problems. The mechanical shark (which Spielberg named Bruce, after his lawyer) often proved to be a lot more trouble than it was worth, breaking down frequently and famously getting stuck on the bottom of the ocean during its first swim. So how did Spielberg respond? He decided that instead of filming the shark cruising through the ocean, the camera would become the shark, and many of the early attacks would be seen from its perspective. Which, in the end, proved to be a way better idea than just using shots of a very fake looking mechanical shark that adamantly refused to do the job it was built to do. Just like with the score, Spielberg has now admitted that the camera-as-shark technique possibly saved the film from unforgivable cheesiness, and actually contributed to it's overwhelming success.

Another excellent, defining feature of Jaws is its cast. I mean, really. Is there anyone better to play a salty old sailor who's dedicated his life to killing sharks than Robert Shaw? If I didn't know better I'd believe that they actually just found a crusty sea captain, handed him a script, and hoped for the best. And then there's Richard Dreyfuss, whose wit and snark make him the perfect choice to play the marine biologist who's just dying to catch a shark that would seal his place in the academic world. Finally, there's Roy Sheider, who just wants to keep his town safe, despite his complete lack of knowledge of sharkly behavior. These are the men we all know and love as the main cast of Jaws, so it comes as something as a surprise that none of them were the first choice for their respective parts.

Peter Benchley, the author of the novel on which the film is based, wanted Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, and Robert Redford for the three main characters (god knows which man would have played which character). Charlton Heston was originally considered for Sheider's role. Jeff Bridges and Jon Voight were both under consideration for Dreyfuss's. And, while all these men were or are very fine actors, can you even imagine? It's a really good thing that, for whatever reason, these men were unavailable or uninterested because Jaws just wouldn't be Jaws without Sheider, Dreyfuss, and Shaw. It just wouldn't be right.

Jaws was only Spielberg's second feature-length theatrical release. At 28-years-old he was looking to establish himself in Hollywood, and Jaws allowed him to do just that. But holy crap, what a happy accident it was. Imagine if the mechanical shark had worked just fine, if Peter Benchley had gotten his way in the casting department, and Spielberg had convinced John Williams to change the score. What would the film have been? Probably pretty bad, that's what. And Spielberg would have had to struggle to recover from a very serious misstep. We may never have gotten Raiders of the Lost Ark, E.T., Jurassic Park, or Schindler's List, and we would have been the poorer for it. But then, we also wouldn't have had to suffer through Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, so maybe it wouldn't have been all bad.

#19: This Is War! This Is Not A Game Of Cricket!

(Bridge on the River Kwai, 1957, David Lean)

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD!!

I’m not sure what the reason for it is, but honor has never really been a driving factor in my life. It might be the times we live in, or the society we’re a part of, but I never find myself thinking that when I’m doing something I’m doing it primarily for the honor of it. Let’s be honest, it’s almost always for personal gain. It’s just the way it is. I’m not necessarily saying I’m happy about it, sometimes I think it would be nice to live in a time where a person’s most important quality is their honor, but we live in a world where honor is on the list of important things somewhere far below monetary holdings and good looks. Which is why Bridge on the River Kwai, where honor is valued above all else, is such a fascinating watch.

Bridge on the River Kwai is essentially a story about two colonels, Col. Nicholson of the British army and Col. Saito of the Japanese army, who have to build a bridge. Saito must do it because those are his orders, and Nicholson must do it because he is a prisoner of Saito. In reality, both must do it to preserve their honor. In the interest of time and space, I’m going to focus on Saito, even though Nicholson is played by Alec Guinness, Oscar winner and future Jedi Master. In the end, though, I think Saito is the much more interesting character.  I can talk about Alec Guinness down the road when he’s actually a Jedi.

So here’s the deal: Saito is bound by the Japanese traditions of honor. He must have the bridge built by his deadline, or he has to kill himself. It sounds harsh, but to not have the project completed by the time his superiors say it must be would be extremely dishonorable and disrespectful, and the only way to regain that honor would be to commit seppuku and remove himself from the world. Saito uses a number of methods (mainly torture) to try to convince Nicholson and his men to build the bridge for him in order to meet his deadline and avoid having to end his own life. However, Nicholson refuses to defy the Geneva Conventions and allow his officers to work, so Saito is stuck. Well, kind of. After a few days in a hot box without food or water, Nicholson changes his mind and says he will help get the bridge built as long as Saito upholds the Geneva Conventions and doesn’t make the officers do manual labor. The shake on it, and the both go on their merry bridge-building way.

Long story short, they get the bridge built by the deadline, and everyone’s honor is restored, right? Wrong! Because now Saito must contend with the fact that the building of the bridge has essentially become a British project. The Brits designed the bridge and built the bridge, and all he did was order them to do it. Due to his inner torment, Saito brings his ceremonial knife with him to the bridge during it’s unveiling, and we are left to presume that he is going to commit seppuku anyway. Because, you know, a bridge built entirely by British hands is just as dishonorable as no bridge at all. And then it gets complicated.

While Saito’s inner battle is raging, Nicholson discovers that the Brits have rigged the bridge with explosives so that it will blow right as the first train crosses over it. When Saito and Nicholson get down to the exposed wire, the audience knows that Saito has the knife in his coat. But does he cut the wire? NO! Why? HONOR! If the bridge is destroyed by British forces, Saito cannot be punished because the evidence of his lack of involvement in the project will be reduced to toothpicks. And he would have still met his deadline, solving the initial “meet the deadline or kill himself” problem. He’s saved. Well, kind of. Until he gets shot at least. But that’s really not the point.

I guess that after 4 rewrites I still don’t really know where I’m going with this, except to pose this question. If Saito had lived, and the bridge had exploded because he didn’t cut the wire… would that really have restored his honor? In my mind, not really. By not cutting the wire he allowed the bridge to be destroyed, causing Japanese deaths and a huge inconvenience for the Japanese army. I guess this question is kind of irrelevant because he did die, but I didn’t really know what else to write about this movie. Which, by the way, I really liked. Just don’t ask me to explain why.

 

A Very Brief Update

So I know that my contingent of loyal readers is very small, but I thought I'd provide the few of you that do exist a reason for why there haven't been any new posts for the last week.

I am currently working book rush for The Duck Store, and while it's great for making money it's not super conducive to watching movies and writing blog posts about them. I've been trying very hard to maintain a regular update schedule, but it's just not happening this week.

Updates should be back to normal next Tuesday. Expect that in the very near future I will be talking about prisoners of war and what happens when you go into the water. See you all on October 5th.

#18: With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

(Spider-Man, 2002, Sam Raimi)

I was going to start this post by thanking (or blaming) Spider-Man for making superheroes America's favorite film subject for the last eight years, but then I realized that X-Men came out in 2000, so that point wasn't really valid. I will say this, though: Spider-Man was my first exposure to the new generation of films about superheroes, so I can at least thank (or blame) it for hooking me on the genre. Because I've never been a wild comic book fan I can safely say that if Spider-Man had sucked I may never have seen another movie about superheroes. But we all know that it didn't suck, and I know that I saw many a superhero flick since then, so here we are.

I have to start with a little side story. My mom and I love to re-watch movies from 10-ish years ago because we often get a kick out of seeing people who are now major stars in random, small roles. For example, James Franco is in Never Been Kissed. I'm not sure he even has any lines, but he's in it as one of Guy Perkins' cronies, and we think it's pretty funny. Anyway, re-watching Spider-Man gave me one of those little treats. I finally started watching True Blood this summer, and one of the especially pleasing pieces of eye candy on that show is the werewolf Alcide, who's played by Joe Manganiello. Who is in Spider-Man early on as Mary Jane's boyfriend Flash. I have to admit, I prefer him as a werewolf (scruffy and muscular), but it was fun to see him in one of his earlier roles. Okay, moving on.

Something about a nerdy kid who is constantly tormented in high school being transformed into a muscly, web-slinging superhero by a spider bite strikes a good chord with me. I don't know if it's because I was kind of a nerdy kid in high school, but something about Spider-Man just makes me feel really good. Maybe it's because a part of me has always wanted to wake up with some kind of super power (a part of me still wants to believe that my Hogwarts letter is coming, too), and even though I'm terribly afraid of spiders I'd be happy to let one bite me if I knew that afterward I'd be able to climb walls and sling webs and have spidey senses. No matter what makes me love it so much, the truth is that I find joy in watching Peter Parker discover his new abilities and secretly wish for the day that I find mine, even though I know it's almost certainly never coming. But a girl can dream.

Speaking of Peter Parker, is there any better casting choice than Toby Maguire as the nerd turned superhero? Maybe just one, and that's Willem Dafoe as Norman Osborn/The Green Goblin. Willem Dafoe is kind of a terrifying man, even when he's not playing a villain. That craggy face and raspy voice just scream "BAD GUY," and Dafoe nails Osborn's struggle between his real self and his evil alter-ego. It's a tragedy that the Green Goblin has to die at the end of the movie, because his presence probably would have improved the second and third installments in the Spider-Man franchise. Not that I have anything against Alfred Molina, but just like I feel like Michael Caine should be the only person allowed to play Ebeneezer Scrooge, I also feel that Willem Dafoe is the best choice to play pretty much every villain ever.

So there it is. I love Spider-Man because I am a nerdy person who hopes that one day I'll be able to fly or read minds or something. I love Toby Maguire as Peter Parker, but not as much as I love Willem Dafoe as Norman Osborn. And even though it's completely unrelated to this movie, I secretly hope that my invitation to study at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is on it's way to me as we speak. Because I am a nerd. And Spider-Man is a movie for nerds.

# 17: Bluffing. The Word Is Bluffing.

(Quiz Show, 1994, Robert Redford)

I'd heard from a number of people that I needed to see Quiz Show. I think the recommendations began when people started realizing that I watch Jeopardy with my parents almost every night, and that we don't only watch it, we keep track of how many of the questions me manage to get right (which usually isn't many). Trivia is something that I've always been kind of good at because I have the ability to store random, seemingly irrelevant bits of knowledge for shockingly long periods of time. I don't really know why, I just can. Because of that, watching a movie about people who are good at trivia (or at least are pretending to be) was really enjoyable.

Quiz Show was one of the films that I was really excited to see on The List. It was one of those happy instances in which something that I wanted to do and something that I had to do were actually the same thing. I mean, I don't really have to do this, but I've committed myself to this project and it's nice when watching the films doesn't feel like a chore. So when I sat down with my parents (my Jeopardy partners in crime) to watch Quiz Show I found myself actively looking forward to it, which was kind of a nice change of pace. And I certainly wasn't let down.

I don't want to spend a lot of time on the plot because I actually have other things to say about this film, but here's the gist: Quiz Show is based on the true story of the quiz show scandals of the 1950s, which led to the cancellation of many quiz shows and serious format changes in others. The film focuses on Charles van Doren, a charming and intelligent college professor who won a staggering amount of money on Twenty One and was later revealed to have been coached by the shows producers, as were many contestants that came before him. Contestants and producers were brought in front of the House Committee for Legislative Oversight to testify, with contestants generally admitting that they were guilty of accepting assistance from the producers and the producers generally claiming that it was all in the name of good television. But in the end, the shows were proven to be rigged and that was that. 

But wasn't it good television? I'm going to bring up a more contemporary example of someone on a quiz show making good television: Ken Jennings. In 2004, Jennings appeared on Jeopardy and won a staggering 74 times before finally losing during his 75th appearance. Unfortunately, I didn't watch the Ken Jennings episodes, but when I watched Quiz Show I couldn't help but bring him to mind. Ken Jennings was unstoppable, much like Charles van Doren. In 75 appearances on the show there were only 14 instances in which his total after the Double Jeopardy round wasn't insurmountable. That means that in 61 of his 75 games he had over double the money that the next closest contestant had going into Final Jeopardy. He was unstoppable. Then, suddenly, on his 75th appearance he just seemed to give up, giving an incorrect answer to a Final Jeopardy question that many believe he should have known. And the age of Ken Jennings was over.

While Jennings appeared on the show, viewership for Jeopardy increased by over 20%. Suddenly, Americans cared about the quiz show again. Sure, a lot of people were probably tuning in just hoping to see him lose, but they were tuning in nonetheless. Much like when Charles van Doren was on Twenty One. Now, I'm certainly not saying that Ken Jennings was coached, or that the game was rigged in his favor, or that he was asked to throw the game during his 75th appearance because audiences were getting tired of see his face. I am saying that watching Quiz Show after Ken Jennings is a very different experience than watching Quiz Show before Ken Jennings.

No one suspected anything of Charles van Doren until he confessed his indiscretions in front of the Congressional committee, all while the producers were saying that they didn't do anything wrong. They were just creating good TV. If Herbert Stempel (the man van Doren defeated in his first victory on Twenty One) had never come forward and revealed that he had been coached on the show, there may never have been any quiz show scandals. Charles van Doren and all the people who came before and after him would have only been remembered as being good TV. Or maybe they wouldn't have been remembered at all. But we definitely wouldn't have Quiz Show, and that would be a real shame.

#16: That Is A Nice Ball You Have

(M, 1931, Fritz Lang)

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD!

I have a general distaste for old movies. I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned that before, but it's probably important that my readers know that. It could explain why I didn't love Vertigo, which I discussed in my previous post. This distaste almost certainly stems from my opinion that the acting in old movies is generally over the top and somewhat ridiculous because many of those actors were trained for stage acting, which is much more emotive. For the most part, my favorite movies were made after 1970. But I adore M. I absolute love it, despite the fact that Fritz Lang made it in 1931.
 
What surprises me most about M is the fact that it was Fritz Lang's first talkie. All of his previous films (including the much lauded Metropolis) were silent. To me, logically, a director's first foray into sound films would be somewhat clumsy, especially if said director had made a number of well-regarded silent films. The transition from silence to sound was a difficult one for many filmmakers (see Singin' in the Rain for a comedic interpretation of that problem), but Fritz Lang used the new technology brilliantly, even making sound an important part of the plot.

M is almost entirely devoid of music, save for one recurring motif. Hans Beckert (played by Peter Lorre) often whistles Grieg's "In the Hall of the Mountain King" while he is out walking the streets, searching for children to kidnap and murder. At the start of the film he buys a balloon from a blind beggar for young Elsie Beckmann while whistling the tune. Elsie becomes his newest victim, sending all of Berlin into a furious search for the man who is killing the city's children. And that whistled tune becomes the key to solving the whole mystery.

Beckert knows what he's doing. He's careful and calculated, and up until he writes a letter to the newspapers that essentially eggs on the authorities they basically have no leads regarding who or where he is. Partly because it's 1931 and they don't have things like DNA comparison, and partly because Beckert has perfected his technique. Except for the whistling. Because when he brings another child to that same blind balloon seller it is the whistling that gives him away. And none of this ever could have happened if M had been a silent film. Title cards that read "Beckert whistles 'In the Hall of the Mountain King'" just don't have the same effect.

When I watch M all I can do is think about what a work of genius it truly is. That's it. It's stunning, and as all of the plot developments happen all I'm thinking to myself is "this is brilliant." And that's really all there is to it.

#15: You Were A Very Apt Pupil!

(Vertigo, 1958, Alfred Hitchcock)

Well hello, Alfred Hitchcock. I get the feeling I'll be seeing a lot of you on this journey. Perhaps because you have 10 films on The List. But that's okay, I'd rather watch 10 Hitchcock's than 10 Lars von Trier's.

So, here I go into the realm of Hitchcock. I started with Vertigo because it's been on a lot of lists like this (it's on all of the AFI lists that they could logically put it on), and pretty much everyone I know who's seen it has enjoyed it. So, after watching the Ducks stomp all over the New Mexico State Lobos, I sat down to watch Vertigo fully prepared to be completely floored by it. Well... I wasn't. But that isn't to say that I didn't like it.

The first Hitchcock film I ever watched was The Birds. It was at least 9 years ago because we were still living in Arizona at the time, and even then I knew I'd just watched something pretty incredible. Since that viewing, I had seen a total of zero Hitchcock films in their entirety until now. Don't get me wrong, Vertigo was good. It just wasn't The Birds, which for some reason I hold as the ultimate Hitchcock film even though 100 film scholars would probably want me pecked to death by ravens for it. I guess it's just that it was my first Hitchcock, and when I sat down to watch it with my parents I had no idea what was coming. And not knowing made it incredible. Which brings me back to Vertigo.

I went into Vertigo knowing entirely too much. Sure, I didn't know the big twist that happens about three quarters of the way in, but I knew about the protagonist's crippling fear of heights, and I knew about his obsessive love for Kim Novak's Madeleine. I wish that I hadn't, because I may have been more affected by the plot developments if I'd been completely unprepared for them. Then again, maybe not. As I mentioned 14 posts ago, the first time I saw Fight Club I knew exactly what was coming in the end, but Fight Club still stands tall as one of my favorite movies ever. Vertigo, on the other hand, does not. So maybe preparation wasn't the problem. But I'd like to believe that if I hadn't seen any of it coming I would have enjoyed it a lot more.

This in no way means that I didn't enjoy watching Vertigo at all. I really did. I can already see that Hitchcock was clearly one of the great innovators of cinema, and I'm excited to watch more of his films (particularly the ones that I've never heard of and know nothing about). I guess that I expected a lot because of how much scholars and critics love this film, but what can I say? It just wasn't my thing. Then again, neither was Citizen Kane.

#14: We'll Wriggle Out Of This Somehow

(Lost in La Mancha, 2002, Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe)

Watching Lost in La Mancha made me realize that this project is probably going to involve me learning a lot of new things about myself. So far I've learned that it took me about 5 years too long to see Boogie Nights, that watching Babe will always make me cry and momentarily question my love of bacon, and that nothing will ever dim my love for Mean Girls. My most recent learning moment came with the viewing of this film, and it boils down to this: I'm not really fond of documentaries.

This is the first documentary from The List that I've watched, and I made an active point to choose one that had subject matter I was interested in. I'm generally not especially fascinated by all of the gritty details about how the film industry cranks out its product, but Lost in La Mancha had a few things going for it. First of all, it's about the failed production of an adaptation of The Man of La Mancha directed by Terry Gilliam. I have a thing for catastrophes and fiascoes, and the production of The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (the title of the adaptation) is exactly that. I don't know why, but I like when things crash and burn, and I really like it when I can watch and try to understand what made everything come tumbling down. Secondly, Johnny Depp was cast to be the star of The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, and I'll use any excuse I can to watch Johnny Depp. Finally, even though I've only seen one of his films in its entirety, I find Terry Gilliam to be a pretty fascinating guy. His films are quirky and off the wall, and also deal with subjects like dystopia and sanity, which is pretty much right up my alley. But despite all of those factors, I found Lost in La Mancha to be kind of a snooze.

I honestly don't know why I didn't really like Lost in La Mancha. Maybe it was just too sad watching Terry Gilliam's dream of his film being made fall apart in his hands. He was plagued with problems ranging from lack of funding to an all-to-restrictive schedule to crazy weather. Nothing went right for the guy. And he was clearly doing everything he could to try to save it, and it just didn't happen. My usual enjoyment of watching a catastrophe in action dimmed quite a bit when I was forced to see the faces of the people that it was directly affecting. I wasn't just hearing about a ship that sank over a hundred years ago, or a volcano that erupted and destroyed a whole city two thousand years ago. I was seeing a real, living, breathing person watching their dreams crashing down around them as it happened. Suddenly it wasn't so fun.

Of course, in the end, I can't feel to0 bad for Terry Gilliam. He's already announced that he's making another attempt at The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, and it's hard to feel that bad for a guy who fights that hard for something he wants to do. For Gilliam, Lost in La Mancha will most likely just be something that he looks back on as a very large speed bump on his road to making a movie. And if The Man Who Killed Don Quixote ever gets made, I can see it and at least find some satisfaction in knowing that I understand a little more about how it came into being.

#13: You Stay Alive, Baby. Do It For Van Gogh.

(Blue Velvet, David Lynch, 1986)

Writing my "analysis" (I use the term loosely) of Blue Velvet is a little bittersweet considering that I watched this film with my former other half. At the time I never thought that this would become a solo venture, but alas, here we are. Or, more accurately, here I am. But I don't want to bog down this post with sentimentality because Blue Velvet is really a remarkable film. A remarkably bizarre film.

There are very few films that I can honestly say have ever made me feel truly uncomfortable. Aspects of Pan's Labyrinth really made me cringe, and The Shining always makes my skin crawl despite my everlasting love for it, but Blue Velvet may be the first movie I've ever seen that made me downright uncomfortable in my own skin. Most of the time I felt like I was watching something very private, that shouldn't have been released for audiences to view. When Kyle MacLachlan's Jeffrey Beaumont first witnesses the interaction between Frank Booth (played by Hopper) and Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini) from the inside of Dorothy's closet, I honestly felt like I was hiding in there with him, and at any second Booth was going rip open the door and catch both of us in our act of voyeurism. Like watching the proverbial train wreck, I found myself riveted to what was on screen, all while wishing that I could bring myself to look away. I knew that I should keep watching (because in a perverse, wicked way I knew I was in for a real cinematic treat), but nothing about the situation felt right. It felt uncomfortable.

And then, on top of all the visual weirdness that was happening on the screen, there was also constant presence of "Blue Velvet," the song that the film takes its title from. The song, which was recorded by Bobby Vinton in 1963, would be just another charming 60's ballad if it weren't for the images that accompany it in this film. If I'd have heard "Blue Velvet" under other circumstances I would have thought, "gee, what a nice song about a man in love with a woman who happens to wear a blue velvet dress." Of course, after watching Blue Velvet I will now think to myself "oh god, this is that song from Blue Velvet that Booth likes to hear Dorothy sing before he does terrifying things to her." No matter how hard I try, I will forever associate the song with Dennis Hopper getting high on amyl nitrate and violating Isabella Rossellini. I can't help it. And, try as I might, I won't be able to think of the song as "charming" alongside those other thoughts.

I've tried and retried to find a way to wrap this post up, and for some reason I'm finding it bizarrely challenging. So here's the gist. Blue Velvet is good. Like... really good. It's not one that I'm likely to ever forget, and I look forward to the day when I get the chance to watch it again. Yes, it's rather disturbing and uncomfortable to watch, but I guess that's not really surprising. I mean, when a film starts with a young man finding a human ear you should be prepared for it all to go downhill from there.

#12: Four For You, Glen Cocco. You Go, Glen Cocco!

(Mean Girls, Mark Waters, 2004)

I have an unholy love for Mean Girls. That needs to be said from the start. There is absolutely no concrete, defensible reason for me to love this movie as much as I do. Except maybe the fact that Tina Fey wrote it. But that's beside the point. The point is that my love for this movie is that of an out of control, crazy person. So... keep that in mind.

What I love about Mean Girls is that it lives in a universe that's just barely an exaggeration of the one that we actually live in. For example, I didn't know anyone in high school who looked like Regina George, acted like Regina George, lived in a house like Regina George's, or had parents like Regina George's. Then again, maybe I was hanging out with the wrong people (or the right ones, depending on how you want to look at it). However, while I didn't know anyone who was identical to The Queen Bee, I certainly knew an awful lot of people who bore a close resemblance. And that's where the genius of Mean Girls lies. No high school is exactly like North Shore High School, but no high school is far off, either. Mean Girls strikes the perfect tone because it's real enough that you don't think to yourself "well, that could never happen," but fake enough that it isn't completely terrifying.

I'll admit, there are times when Mean Girls almost pushes it too far. As far as I knew, the "slut rule" for Halloween didn't exist until college (I'm sorry, but no girl I ever knew in high school would have gotten away with just wearing "lingerie and some form of animal ears" on arguably the most dangerous night of the year). No mom would ever walk in on her daughter making out with a guy and ask if they needed a condom and then just walk out when she didn't get an answer. And no dad, no matter how much time he's spent in Africa, would not know that when kids are grounded you aren't supposed to let them out of the house. But that's okay. I don't care. Because all of those things are funny. That Tina Fey knows what she's doing. I mean, count the Emmys.

So there it is. I love Mean Girls. I always will. It's another movie that I can recite along with the actors. Honestly, I could probably recite most of it from memory without the actors. But don't judge me too harshly. Because I might just push you in front of a bus.

#11: We Named the Monkey Jack.

This is the first of the now solo posts by snuffleHUFFagus, previously the "Car" half of CarJack. The project is continuing, just in a somewhat shortened format. I hope everyone still enjoys reading my misadventures through the Guardian's list of 1000 Films to See Before You Die.

(Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl, Gore Verbinski, 2003)

There's really not much to be said about Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (or, if you like, POTC:TCOTBP). It can be said that this film and its sequels are responsible for the pirate craze that kind of took over popular culture in the last 7 years. It can also be said that never has making a movie based on a Disneyland ride been such a good idea. Really, there are innumerable things that can be said about this movie. So why am I so short on things to say about it?

It's fitting that this is the first film that will be written about solely by me, becuase it is also the first film I ever owned on DVD. This is due to no specific personal connection to the film, but more because of the fact that my family first bought a DVD player around the same time that the first POTC came out on DVD. So, whether I like it or not, it's kind of special for me. It's also one of a handful of movies that I've seen so many times that I can recite the lines along with the actors. I've seen this move A LOT. I think it has something to do with Johnny Depp (just a guess). And even after an insane number of viewings, I don't really have anything bad to say about it. It's just a really well-made film. And I think it takes a lot of heat because it's based on a ride and it's not exactly serious subject matter. So let's take a second and analyze one aspect of the film: the cast.

We'll start with some of the more minor players. Governor Swann is played by Jonathan Price, whose previous credits include Brazil, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and various roles on stage. Oh, and he played Juan Peron in Evita, a role which required not only some serious acting skills, but also respectable singing ability. Then there's Geoffrey Rush as Captain Barbossa who's won the "Triple Crown of Acting:" an Emmy, a Tony, and an Oscar. When Keira Knightley played Elizabeth Swann she was only 17, an age at which I was mostly concerned with why boys didn't like me or what color dress I was going to wear to prom. When Orlando Bloom played Will Turner he was still working on The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, the final installment of which went on to win 11 Academy Awards (it won in every category it was nominated in). And then there's Johnny Depp, whose role as Captain Jack Sparrow earned him an Academy Award nomination. Keep in mind that this film was based on a theme park ride.

Basically what I'm trying to say is that Pirates of the Caribbean is not just an entertaining film, it's a genuinely good film. It's got a great cast, an incredible soundtrack, and stunning cinematography and sets. It's extremely well made and well-written. And I'm kind of just rambling because anyone who reads this has probably seen the film and already knows for themselves that it's pretty awesome. So, to conclude, I'd just like to take a moment to forget about what Pirates of the Caribbean is based on and just appreciate it for the film that it is.

#10: I'm Making Spoon Bread!

(Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Don Siegel, 1956)

My absolute favorite part of Invasion of the Body Snatchers has literally nothing to do with any body snatching. In fact, it has very little to do with the plot of the film at all. Early in the story, our hero (played by Kevin McCarthy) is meeting up with an old flame at her house, and her mother offers him to stay for dinner. And what does she say she's making? "Spoon bread." I had no idea what spoon bread was (it's some kind of savory pudding) but the enthusiasm with which the actress delivered the line made me laugh out loud. So there you go.

Aside from spoon bread, Invasion of the Body Snatchers still has a lot to offer. If you've ever been paranoid about anything in your entire life, this might be the best film you can watch. Unlike a lot of other films, the supposed "crazies" here are 100% right the whole way through. The reason your dad is acting so weird? He's not your dad, he's an alien drone whose only mission in life is to conquer our planet. So run. Run now!

One of the best things Invasion of the Body Snatchers has going for it is the concept that anyone could be a pod person, and it would be near impossible to tell. The film creates an atmosphere of extreme tension in all the scenes where characters we'd seen just previously are acting completely normal, but with a few small quirks. You get whipped up in a frenzy, much like the rest of the characters, until you feel the same panic McCarthy feels when he shouts "They're already here! You're next! You're next!"

Despite their efforts, Hollywood is never going to produce a better version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers (but the '70s version still has Leonard Nimoy!). Communism is no longer the perceivable threat it was in the 1950s, and no studio would let the subtle moments of this film slide by without filling them with a shaky-cam chase scene or gory mutilation. It's a nice little sci-fi/horror film, made at exactly the right time.

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I have to admit, I've kind of had enough of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I watched it for a Politics and Film class I'm taking and ended up writing a film analysis on it, so I really wish I could just skip this post because I don't need to talk about this movie any more. I would just post my film analysis, but it's kind of long and not very good, so I'll spare all of you good people the agony. But I'm kind of mentally done with this film.

In case you didn't already know, Invasion of the Body Snatchers is about the terrifying, ever-present fear of COMMUNISM! That's right, the first incarnation of this film was made during the McCarthy era and the Red Scare, and those scary, soulless aliens that are taking over the bodies of the main character's loved ones are actually communists in disguise. As aliens. Or maybe they actually are just aliens. I'm still not clear on that.

Okay, I'm kidding. I'm pretty clear on it. They are actually aliens. But the aliens are a metaphor for communists. At least that's one theory. The other theory is that the filmmakers made a film about aliens that grow in weird space pods and take over the bodies of innocent citizens, and American society just assumed it was about communism. Because there's this theory out there that when a society is going through a problem they will project that problem onto things in popular culture such as television and film. I like to believe that the filmmakers are intelligent people and the metaphor was intentional, but I also used to dream of being a screenwriter so I might be biased. Either way, this film has kind of gone down in history as being a big red communist metaphor, so that's pretty much all it will be remembered for. That, and the multiple remakes.

To be completely honest, this film is kind of enjoyable in the same way that any 1950's horror film is enjoyable. By today's standards of horror it's completely cheesy and not scary at all, but that's kind of why it's fun. So I guess I don't hate the film, I just hope that I never have to write about it ever again.

#9: Once, When I Was Little, I Fell into a River.

(Spirited Away, Hayao Miyazaki, 2001)

My love for Spirited Away is something that I find hard to define. I'm not one of those people who worships the ground that Hayao Miyazaki walks on, and as such I don't automatically love every film he's ever made simply because he made it. My feelings about Howl's Moving Castle were decidedly lukewarm, and, in all honesty, I've never actually seen My Neighbor Totoro in its entirety. I just never have gotten around to it. But I really adore Spirited Away.

Part of it could be because the first time I saw it I was in high school and I had been taking Japanese. Though I didn't see the film in Japanese, I did feel like I was taking a step in learning more about Japanese culture and, I'll admit, it felt good. Or it could be that my mom and I saw it at the Bijou (for you non-Eugenians, that's our independent theater) and there weren't many other people there. For some reason it made it seem all the more personal. I also love that, even after seeing this film 10+ times, I'm still not entirely sure what any of it means. Probably because I'm not Japanese. There are aspects of it that I'm sure resonate really well with people who have lived their entire lives in Japan. I'm certain that there are symbols in this film that just don't translate to an American audience. And I think that element of the mysterious and exotic appeals to me.

For me, Spirited Away ends up being a beautifully illustrated and whimsically told story about a young girl who wants to get her parents back. She meets interesting "people" (I use that term extremely loosely), does interesting things, and has a great adventure. And there's a dragon. I'm a sucker for dragons. I don't feel like I need to understand exactly what's happening and what the symbols mean to appreciate the sweeping, colorful beauty of Miyazaki's art. Because, ultimately, that's what Spirited Away is. Wonderful, colorful, whimsical moving art.

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Let me start by saying that by no means do I think Spirited Away is a bad film. It's a weird film, to be sure, but it is definitely not bad. I like when animated movies, especially animated movies aimed at children, push the envelope, creating detailed story lines and complex characters, trusting kids to understand what they can and accept what they don't. And Spirited Away definitely does that.

Perhaps the biggest issue I had with Spirited Away was the hype. Just about every person I have spoken to about the film raved about how much they loved it, and how they found it so moving, and how it had changed the way they look at film. And I appreciate that everybody seems to like it. Heck, John Lasseter himself does the intro to the American version of the film on DVD. In short, there was no way this movie could live up to the hype unless it was a documentary showing the second coming of Christ, but it played like an episode of Doctor Who (By the way, who wouldn't want to see Jesus as the 12th Doctor? It would make for an interesting season, to say the least).

Alas, Spirited Away is not the greatest film I'd ever seen. Hayao Miyazaki clearly knows his way around a complex story, but despite the immense attention to detail, I found myself getting lost or confused several times. I found the way the story flowed to be a little off-putting, as it covered so much ground in so little time. Spirited Away is a very fast moving film, but I felt like it was jerking me around rather than allowing the story to flow cohesively.

Above all else in the film, and the one thing I took away from it, was the extremely awesome characters Miyazaki came up with. We have a talking frog, a weird ghost/man named No Face, a cross between a spider and an old guy, a Stink Spirit/River Spirit, a gigantic baby, humans who turn into pigs, and twins with awkwardly proportioned heads and bodies. Watching all of these characters (supplied with their American voices by an amazing cast including Suzanne Pleshette and David Ogden Stiers) interact with one another is absolutely fascinating, even if it doesn't make sense at times.

So what did I think of Spirited Away? I'd have to say I like the film, but not nearly as much as everyone seemed to think I would. That's okay, but it was still kind of a letdown. I wanted to fall into the story, but I couldn't quite get into it.